


topaz

by Coquette



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dark, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coquette/pseuds/Coquette
Summary: Alternative to Salt Rose. Nero opened with the wrong line and shit goes down. The smoldering resentment turns dark and dreadful and Nero hunts Angelo down through the woods determined to take every last thing from him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry for the late update. This just got in my head and refused to leave. I look at it like two things could have happened. Either they could have talked to each other or they could have beat the shit out of each other. They talked it out in Salt Rose.
> 
> They beat the shit out of each other in this one.

_"Go right."_

_Nero turns his head._

_"Go south," Angelo continues, evenly. "And you'll end up on Route 41."_

_"And where are we going?" Nero inquires lightly, an eyebrow raising._

_"The ocean," Angelo says, staring straight ahead. A long beat of silence. Then. "Have you ever seen it?"_

_Nero shrugs. "Nah,' he says, offhand. He considers it._

_Angelo says nothing in reply, eyes dully fixed up on some point ahead._

_Nero directs the car toward the road leading south._

_Small steps._

-

The fire burns merrily, vivid light reflecting a comfortable orange glare onto the surrounding vegetation. Nero takes a sip of whiskey - it's good, but not Lawless Heaven good - and passes it over to Angelo. He takes it with some little difficulty.

His hands are, after all, bound together. Precautionary measure. Nero might have been gullible, yes, but he's been cured real good of that habit by now.

 "Why didn't you go with that Galassia scum?" He looks over at Avi-...no, it's Angelo now, curious as to why the traitor hadn't turn tail and run.

"They had nothing to offer me." Angelo doesn't lift his bent head, eyes now trained on the crackling, leaping flames of the campfire. He's been content enough to ignore Nero so far. "I already had my revenge."

Nero stares at him grimly. "So you did," he agrees. His fists tighten on his thighs then relax minutely. They've both lost so much - it won't help him if he loses his cool here. But he's pretty much got nothing else to say to Angelo. At least nothing that won't end in one of them, Nero thinks a little longingly, fucked up beyond all measure.

"You really should kill me," says Angelo, by way of conversation.

Nero looks down, and then away. "Why? Planning to kill me in my sleep?" His wry mouth twists into a sneer. "Aren't you satisfied yet? What you did not enough for you?" The anger's not cold, not yet.

After a moment, Angelo shakes his head. "No," he says, tasting the word on his lips and then his head lifts slowly, till his eyes focus knife-sharp on Nero. "No I wasn't _satisfied_." He purrs out the last word like a cat. A dark smirk creeps across his face and Nero knows even before he utters another word that he's getting what he wanted; things are going to get ugly. "It was much better than that. It felt so much better than I could have imagined."

Nero nearly misses the fact that he's been palming a fist in one hand over the pulse thundering in his ears. He's smiling; hard and dangerous, daring Angelo to continue, and continue he does.

Angelo straightens up then; thrusts his shoulders back. Flashes him a sweet, cloying smile that bares way too many teeth to be friendly. "I won't lie," he starts, shrugging a little. "My heart was pounding with excitement when I put down the dogs that killed my family." His mouth firms and spreads again, in that fake smile, that baring of teeth that says more than fists and stones ever could. " _Wi_ _th my own hands_."

"Avilio," Nero growls out, fists curling tight. "You better fucking shut your mouth right now."

And Avilio, no, Angelo, tilts his head back and has the bloody gall to smirk,a taunting thing, a thing that says _but I've said enough, and I've won_ -

Nero loses it.

A litany of _why?-why-you-killed-them-all-should-have-known-better-trusted-you-traitor-traitor!_ runs through his head and then he's lunging for that bastard, still smiling so sharply-

But Angelo is quicker. And Nero hadn't realized. Angelo still has the bottle.

Nero jerks back and the jagged edge of glass barely misses cutting his throat wide open.

"You-" He staggers back as Angelo drives up, hands securely wrapped around the bottle's neck. Being a thief and a pick-pocket had made him quick on his feet and surprisingly dexterous with his hands. He's relentless, allowing Nero not a single moment's pause in dodging.

Ah, Nero thinks bitterly. So he's next on the list. Not unprecedented. He played them all. He played _him_.

The next thought Nero has is for the gun strapped to his waistband.

Angelo must read his intentions on his face because he quickly attempts to stab Nero again, aiming the broken bottle at his eyes this time.

And Nero pivots on his heel and ducks under, missing just by a hair when he grabs for Angelo.

The utter shock in Angelo's eyes feels like triumph.

Because Angelo, Angelo thinks he's the only one who knows how to scrap dirty in the yard?

Thing is, Nero was born to it. Sure, he didn't chose his life; sure, he could have cried his sorry ass off the first time he was forced to kill. But there's something Nero learned.  You endure, and you endure. Everything life throws at you, you endure and you learn and you come out stronger for it.

Nero knows more than his fair share of fighting dirty. He's not some pussy wallflower hiding in the background. He'd just never got a good chance to put his skill with his fists to good use in front of Angelo before. And now - he's _so_ fucking eager to put it to good use.

He spits sideways and beckons Angelo forward, dancing on his feet. The Don had always said boxing was a true gentleman's sport - and to never pull his punches.

The next time Angelo leaps forward, he sways and lets Angelo's momentum carry him half-way past; and then he catches the back of his neck and he jerks his knee up, right into his solar plexus. That's right, you fucking traitor, he thinks vindictively, did you really think I'd be that easy?

Angelo goes over easy, folds like a deck of cards.

Nero throws him to the ground, dispassionately eyes him as he lays there gasping for breath. "You little fuck," he seethes and bends over, wrings the bottle from limp fingers. "That was the last fucking bottle."

Angelo snorts and Nero kicks him in the ribs. "What?" he demands, as Angelo curls in on himself with a whimper. "What do you think is so funny about that? Fucking piece of work you turned out to be."

He throws the bottle into the distance as hard as he can. Then he pulls out his gun, and after a moment's thought puts it back.

He kneels beside Angelo and palms the knife he keeps in his sock. "Here," he says roughly, grabbing Angelo's hands and sowing savagely at the ropes. "I don't want you to get the coward's way out. You don't deserve that _Angelo_."

He sits back and bares his teeth in a snarl. Angelo's gone still, only the slight rise and fall of his chest giving him away. "Come at me," Nero hisses. "Come at me like a real man you snotty little brat and I'll show you how I put a mad dog down."

Angelo sneers up at him.

Lightning quick, he reaches to grab the hand darting for his knife. Angelo's other fist strikes him a glancing blow to the right of his mouth. " _Angelo_ ," he says, slowly and the look in his eye must be frightening, the way Angelo tries to pull away. He tightens his grip till the bones within grind. "You'll have to do much better than that. You thought it'd be that easy? Your old man put up a better fight than this."

Something's broken in Nero. Something that cracked when he found out about Vanno's death, and then Frate and then his father - something that kept breaking each time just now cracked wide open and spilled itself everywhere. He doesn't feel like himself anymore. He feels _great._ He feels fucking amazing.

Out of control.

He pries the knife away and it too sails somewhere far away; hits something with a satisfying thunk. "Go on," Nero invites, deceptively soft. "What are you waiting for? A written invitation?"

He stands up, moves back a few paces. Angelo sits up and shoots him a venomous glare, before brushing himself off and standing stiffly.

They circle each other for a few seconds, eyes like eagles, looking for the slightest of weakness. Nero has to hand it to Angelo; he's looking at all the right things. The way Nero favors guarding his left; the slight limp he carries from a bone set wrong; the fact he's better with a gun than at fist to fist combat.

But his blood thirst makes him reckless and wild. He's going to bring this little cunt a notch down or two. It's the least he can do to honor his father. And then. And _then_. There's gonna be hell to pay.

Nero smiles fully, with all his teeth. Absently, he licks his lip, feels the sticky upswell of blood on his tongue. That blow earlier must have cut his lip open, he deducts. Oh well. Lucky shot. "Come on," he taunts. "Think you can step it up a notch? Doesn't little Luce deserve more than this?"

Because that had been Nero's first job, and he'd never forgotten - long after the house was burnt down and the people all went home he'd stayed committing each name to memory: Testa, Luce, Elena, and for weeks after their deaths had haunted him till that too was burnt out of him by his father, all the regret and guilt buried under layers of duties and dependence but the names stayed.

Angelo's brow tightens and then he's flying across the clearing at him. Nero evades the first punch, but gets a foot tugging at his instep instead. He pulls, flips them as he falls and strikes Angelo hard across the face. Angelo socks him one in the jaw and then they're a mass of writhing tugging limbs each trying to outwit the other. Nero struggles to pin Angelo down but he's slippery as an eel. He manages another couple punches, but then Angelo gets his knee up and between his legs. He curse, backtracking hastily as Angelo bucks, dislodging him enough to slip out from under him.

Angel rolls to his feet, and after casting one unreadable look at Nero, starts sprinting away.

The knife, Nero realizes. He's going for the knife.

He stares after the retreating back for a few seconds. "Should've expected that," he murmurs. His mouth tugs upward. "You keep running away, don't you? But you'll get what's coming to you."

Nero stands up slowly, puts his hands in his pockets and saunters into the woods after Angelo whistling a jaunty tune .

The woods are dark and foreboding but Nero's been locked up in enough cellars in his youth to last a lifetime. Scary things don't go bump in the night. People do. And reality can be way scarier than anything told in any childhood horror story. He's learned that people are the real monsters. People like him. People like Angelo. People with nothing to lose and everything to prove.

He fingers the trigger of the gun in his waistband. "Foul play deserves foul play," he murmurs as he hunts for Angelo through the trees. "Where are you, you fucking bastard?"

The woods rustle but don't answer.

Nero stops and turns his face to the breeze. It's blowing cooler now. From the left. He can faintly hear running water. He breaks into a run and comes out on the bank of a little stream. He skids on the pebbles close to the water but catches himself. Shoe prints go down the muddy slope into the water and come out on the other side, their marks etched deeply into the pliant mud.

"Goddamn me," he murmurs. "But really, it's the oldest trick in the book. Which way would you have gone? Upstream? Downstream?" His face splits in a mocking grin. "Angelo!" He calls out, laughing, just a little. "Angelo!"

He squats down onto his haunches after a while of getting no reply. His timing must be particularly good because that's when a knife whistles through the air where his head would have been and spares him what would undoubtedly have  been a gruesome end.

Angelo stands above him, knife clutched in one trembling hand. He's shivering from the cold, but he has a dead expression on his face. His feet are bare, and dirty, his shoes nowhere to be seen, his pants rolled up to the knees.

"Clever," Nero muses, staring up. That's when it really hits him, that Angelo really truly wants him dead. "I'm one sure lucky bastard, huh?"

Angelo spins away but Nero's quicker. He reaches out and almost casually tugs at one slender ankle. Angelo's face mirrors surprise as he stumbles and the ground doesn't hold firm. Instead the treacherous mud gives way and he lands heavily on his side. His foot. The wrong way.

He cries out in sharp agony and Nero knows at the very least, he won't be moving quickly on that ankle. Game, set, and match.

Angelo claws his way to hands and knees,  grunting with the effort.

And then Nero's there, hunched over him, caging him in with his body. "You know how you keep a bitch docile?" he asks conversationally. "You let the dogs at her, one by one, until she doesn't know when they'll come or what they'll do. Gotta say, it's unpleasant, but the results are very nice. The Don was into breeding - the Germans did one thing right, turned out some good breeds - Rottweillers, you heard of 'em? "

Angelo's hand slips and he slumps into the dirt, half turned over to look at Nero, eyes blazing topaz in the moonlight. He's like a wild animal himself, all apathy disappeared, snarling and ferocious. "Beating a dog," Nero continues, smiling, ever outwardly pleasant, "just means it'll go mad. And then you got to put it out of the poor thing's misery. But give it the fear of something worse -" He pauses, readjusts himself. His capable hands turn Angelo over till Nero sits astride him, "and it'll be a pathetic little shit forever, ready to lick your boots to keep itself in your good graces."

He cocks the gun, and leans down, inexplicably angry, and unbearably thrilled at the close proximity to his prey. A good chase has always given him this- this particular sort of deep ache in his bones and an overpowering urge to- to kill, to brutalize, to see eyes looking at him with the same animal fear-

-like-

-like in the eyes staring up at him right now.

Angelo's eyes look hunted.

And Nero... is hard. Inexplicably, undeniably hard.

He's been hard since the moment Angelo turned his back to him and ran. You never just run from a predator. You just don't. 

Angelo's not some pretty prostitute he can turn over, can press to the bed with a strong hand on the back of her neck, can fuck rough and long He's not - he's _better_.

This is going to be meaningful - this is going to break Angelo in ways he never thought possible. 

Angelo says nothing, confusion apparent in his eyes when Nero just stares down at him, grinning from ear to ear, but it quickly fades. "Kill me, then," he says, voice dripping with malice. "I've taken everything I wanted from you."

"But oh," Nero replies, grinning "I haven't had that pleasure yet."

 You live long enough to stare the abyss in the eye and it stares right back into you. And you can do things you'd never think of sane otherwise.

Angelo watches in incomprehension as Nero empties the chamber of his gun, spins it once and then drops all the bullets right into the stream. It's deep and the dark night quickly swallows up the offering. As soon as it's gone Angelo surges up but Nero simply headbutts him once, hard. Angelo cries out as he falls back, cradling his forehead. Nero watches him, unsmiling.

He picks up the knife from where it's fallen and nudges the tip beneath Angelo's chin, urging him upward till he's on his knees, glaring from squinted teary eyes and still as ferocious as a cornered animal.

"There's one bullet left." He smiles acidly. "That's for if you promise to be good. I'll make it quick. No pain." He presses the knife deeper and watches a thin rivulet of blood stream down Angelo's neck. "And if you want to chose the other option, well, I'm pretty handy at carving up Thanksgiving turkey."

Angelo grits his teeth but flinches as the knife digs deeper. "What's the catch?" he gasps out. Clever kid. Always looking at the details.

And Nero smiles. Without taking his eyes off Angelo he reaches down and palms himself. He's so hard it hurts and watching Angelo pale rapidly only makes it better. "Well," he says. "That's up to you."

Men, women - Nero's done it all in his misspent youth. He'd bet you a million bucks though, that Angelo is some kind of prudish straight-laced puritan virgin. However cold and aloof he acts, however desensitized to blood he is, no one's bedded him before as sure as the sun rises in the east. Probably never had time while plotting the deaths of all those Nero ever loved.

Angelo squares his shoulders. Takes a deep breath. "No."

Nero smirks. "The hard way." He backhands Angelo, who goes down with a bitten-off pained noise.

He tests the knife on his thumb for added drama. "I think I'll start with your eyes," he says, and puts on a cheerful look for added emphasis. "How 'bout that, _Angelo_?"

Angelo struggles hard when Nero pounces on him but doesn't try to run. That leg injury, Nero realizes. It's worse than I thought. Good. He frames Angelo's face with one hand, hovers the knife closer and closer-

"Stop!" Angelo heaves, fighting to keep his head away, blinking rapidly. "Stop it! Nero!" His fingers claw at Nero's, his legs kicking at him frantically.

Nero lets up. "So you don't want to be butchered?" he says in mock surprise. The thing inside him, this dark thing Angelo provoked and let free, it's baying for his blood. He's killed before. Done jobs for the family. Cut a tongue out here, gouged some eyeballs out there. What, was life in the mafia supposed to be otherwise? He's not innocent in any sense of the word, hasn't been for a long time. And now Nero can't find it in himself to stop. What's the point? There's nothing left for either of them. One thing is for sure, it's going to end here and now and maybe one of them, one of them will walk away from whatever this is.

Angelo sits where he is, mouth quivering, looking at Nero like he's never seen him before. His breathing calms down, and all the while, Nero waits patiently, idly flicking the knife in his hand.

And then, with trembling fingers, Angelo drags himself onto his knees and reaches out for Nero.

"Good boy," Nero murmurs.

He cards his hands through Angelo's hair as those fingers work at his pants and then-

-oh.

That. That right there. That's _good._

"Ngh-" He tips his back, a soft exclamation leaving his lips. His hips strain forward. "That's it." He tightens the grip he has on Angelo's hair. "Like that, yeah. Deeper."

Angelo makes a choked sound against the jut of his hips and then he's pulling back. Nero stops him however, jerks his head by the hair ruthlessly. "You don't get to stop, _amore_ ," he mocks. His hands tug and he pushes and pulls and drags Angelo into some semblance of a rhythm. "Not till I say so."

Angelo's fists tremble against his thighs and there's so much anger in him, but also fear. Fear that Nero had put into him and god, it ignites a fire in his bones. Deep in his blood it pounds, fuels the rage shafting behind his ribs.

"Stop," he says finally, when he's satisfied that Angelo's been humiliated enough. Kneeling before him, he presses a thumb to a swollen lip. "Suck."

And Angelo's mouth quivers but opens and a dark satisfaction descends upon Nero as his fingers press past into the vulnerable space behind his teeth.

Nero lets him at it, smiles almost languidly as Angelo looks at him with hate burning in his eyes.

It's a balm to his heart, that look. He casually reaches out with his left hand, dropping it into the vee between Angelo's thighs. They quickly bunch together, and Nero sighs in annoyance. His fingers shove deeper without warning, holding Angelo by his jaw, as he drags the struggling limbs apart. "Don't make this hard on yourself," he warns, his hand curling around the injured ankle and applying pressure. "You won't like me angry."

Angelo spits out something, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with fury. Nero has to laugh.

"I'm sorry," he says. "What was that?" He removes his fingers and lightning quick, smashes a fist into Angelo's face. He falls over with a startled cry of pain, clutching at his bleeding nose.

Nero wrings out his fist and grabs Angelo by the hips. Without finesse, he drags the trousers down those long legs. "I'm going to make it hurt," he promises, darkly, pressing up against Angelo, body to body. "I'm going to take everything from you. You'll beg me to kill you before I'm done. And if you beg nice enough, I'll consider it."

Angelo stops struggling at that. Takes a deep breath. His eyes go vacant and then his hands stop pushing at Nero's chest. He lays there limply as Nero drags one slender calf over his shoulder, and doesn't make more than a small noise of pain when Nero breaches him with spit-slick fingers. Apparently he's decided apathy is the best response to Nero's goading. He bites his lip when Nero cruelly twists his fingers up but doesn't do more to resist than stare blankly away at the water. Nero tsks and roughly flips him over, unwilling to admit he's unsatisfied with the response and that Angelo's won something back.

He _hasn't._

There's a stiffening in the shoulders beneath him, and a flex of muscles, fingers curling into claws in the mud as Nero lines himself up and finally slides in. Angelo gives one startled little intake of breath at the first thrust and then slowly goes lax, dropping from the hips up till his face is hidden against one forearm.

"How is it?" Nero asks as his hips press forward into that tight heat. "Am I the first?" he lowers his voice, makes it into something mocking in its cruel intimacy. "Would you like me to go slow?"

There's no reply. He hadn't expected one anyway.

He shrugs and sets up a punishing pace, annoyed by what he thinks is Angelo's stubborn streak showing. It feels good to be bad, he thinks vengefully. It always has. He's a murderer. Angelo's a murderer. Every _fucking_ body in the mafia is a murderer. They're not different. Not really. Despite whatever feelgood bullshit Angelo feeds himself about righteous revenge. The only thing that matters is that Nero is stronger. In this game to the victor goes the spoils, and Nero is clearly not the one losing here. 

He shakes his head scornfully and slants his gaze down.

Angelo is - arousing him, like this, in a way. He's always had this half-starved waifish look to him, cut only by the dangerous feline quality in his eyes. He's hot and tight, and Nero could come just staring at the muscles jumping in his back, the soft hiccuping sounds that suddenly start issuing from his throat when Nero hits that particular spot deep inside despite the pain he must be in. Angelo starts to resist, to fight it, and Nero can almost feel the impending rise of orgasm. He curls closer, wraps an arm around the heaving chest and presses his mouth to an ear in an mockery of tenderness.

"Avilio," he groans when he comes. Inside him - it's not a conscious decision but Nero would have done it all the same, if he'd stopped to think about it. Marking him like this, in a way only he can, in a way that brands Angelo more than calling him brother ever could.

He stills above Angelo finally.

Angelo is still hiccuping softly, his fingers clenched in soil, dirt smeared on the half of his face pressed into the ground.

Nero runs a hand up his flank, smirking at the instinctive flinch it elicits. "That's what you get," he murmurs into the nape of Angelo's neck, his breath fanning over the taunt crease between shoulders. "That's what you get when you don't finish the job."

You could have killed me a thousand times over. You didn't. Why? Why?

Angelo says nothing.

Nero bows his head. The wave of euphoria that washed over him earlier is gone, and in its wake it's left nothing but a hollow blend of resignation and bitterness. He'd lived and he'd believed - in Avilio, in things that could have been, in a future for both of them. It's in tatters now and he'd put the final nail in the coffin and he won't let himself regret it. Everything he loved is dead by this man.

He lifts himself away on his hands and knees and tiredly reaches for the gun.

"On your knees," he instructs, softly, watching the slope of Angelo's pale back rise and fall in a steady measure.

Angelo stirs. His hands curl and then he's pushing himself up onto his knees, facing away from Nero. He wraps his arms around himself.

Nero stands. He does up his pants one handed, the other hanging loosely at his sides. Angelo remains silent, and listless. His face is turned away and his body is lax. In the moonlight, the shadows sculpt his body into a slender wraith-like thing and Nero swallows the lump in his throat.

 _We could have been brothers_ , he thinks. _I loved you as much, if not more than Frate. You did this to me. You. I tried but-_

"I really can't forgive you," he whispers in defeat as he goes to lower the gun.

There's a sudden blur as Angelo twists swiftly and springs into action, and Nero falls beneath the sudden assault, the glint of the knife sharp in Angelo's hand and he's already moving, but it's too late, far too late, Angelo had the element of surprise and-

-the sound of a loud bang echoes in the silent woods.

Nero lays spreadeagled on the ground, eyes wide. Angelo lies sprawled atop him, his mouth pressed against his collarbone.

Nero slowly looks up at the moon. His mouth curves in a wry twist. "This is pretty fucking unbelievable."

Angelo shifts and the knife buried in Nero's gut twists with him. "I hate you," Angelo retorts, coughing weakly. Nero can feel a warm wash of wetness on his chest and it isn't him who's bleeding like that. 

What a fucking twist of fate.

Angelo pulls sharply on the knife and leans back to look at Nero. His eyes are full of unshed tears, and pain. His teeth are grit and he's got a hand on his side where the blood is spurting from. Huh. Lucky shot.

"You're a fucking asshole," says Angelo faintly. His mouth wobbles and his head thumps against Nero's chest.

Nero shrugs, hissing at the pain it brings. "Just returning the favor," he replies, thinking absently of how much blood he's also losing as they speak. It hurt like a fucking bitch, to be honest but the pain is fading away slowly and he's just sort of feeling numb now.

Angelo drops down onto him suddenly. He's pale, and his face is slowly losing color. His eyes slowly slide shut, fluttering, his hand resting heavy on Nero's heart. His breathing slows.

Nero gazes up at the sprinkling of stars in the sky. If he pushed Angelo off him he could probably make it to the car, where the bandages and the medicine and first aid kit are kept. But the sky is vast and expansive and that one star among all others burns brilliant, reminding him of the flash of topaz eyes in the dark.

Neither of them get up.

 

-

 

 **Sonnet XVII**  
  
_I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,_  
_or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off._  
_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,_  
_in secret, between the shadow and the soul._

_-Pablo Neruda_

 

 

 Two years later aka what never happened

 

_"Go right."_

_Nero turns his head._

_"Go east," Angelo continues, evenly. "And you'll end up near Blackstone."_

_"And where are we going?" Nero inquires lightly, an eyebrow raising._

_"The meteorite," Angelo says, staring straight ahead. A long beat of silence. Then. "Have you ever seen one?"_

_Nero shrugs. "Nah,' he says, offhand. He considers it._

_Angelo says nothing in reply, but he does go ahead and jab a fork under the lid of canned pineapples he's holding. He sticks the fork in his mouth and shoots Nero an annoyed look._

_Nero pulls the fork out, leans over and sets his mouth against Angelo's. In the two years since.... that night, they've done that only a couple times. Mostly, it's just hand jobs or the occasional blow when Angelo's feeling particularly restless or has a full purse from pickpocketing all evening. Angelo has issues regarding his first time and Nero will never say it, but he's glad he did it because sometimes he looks at Angelo and only the dark satisfaction of that night keeps him from doing much worse in the present- and he's willing to wait. Sex is not the issue, intimacy is and they're so far beyond fucked up that codependency was only the first in a long line of things that underscore how they can never function separately without each other again._

_Kissing on the other hand, Angelo doesn't mind, even sits passively with sweet pineapple on his lips and lets Nero lick the taste right off them._

_He pulls back. Angelo hums, jabs the fork under the lid again. It springs off with another tight shove. Angelo shoots him a smug look._

_Nero shifts gears and directs the car toward the road leading east._

_Small steps._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hahaha, bet you didn't expect that. :D
> 
> Boxing as a sport became immensely popular in the 1920s. Figured it would add a little spice of reality.
> 
> In 1922, a giant meteorite struck in Blackstone, Virginia. The first ever meteorite fell in Virginia in 1829, in Chesterfield County. 
> 
> P.S: I tried out new formatting. Or rather AO3 did it for me.


End file.
